by Kerri Turner
‘I didn’t say that. It’s only that your father … well, he’s not been around children much. He might not know how to behave. So you just be polite, answer any of his questions, and … and if he makes you upset or uncomfortable, I’ll stick another fish in his bed, alright?’
Lucy felt a bit better at the thought of Bee standing up for her.
But then Bee took her shaking hand and led her through the house, and Lucy’s mouth went dry. She had wanted this, but now she wasn’t sure she could do it. But she didn’t have a choice, for Bee was already opening the door that had remained shut every day since Lucy’s arrival.
Bee announced, ‘Your daughter is here,’ then, with a quick squeeze of Lucy’s shoulder and a whisper not to be afraid of his face, she pushed her inside the room and closed the door.
Lucy’s eyes swung wildly around, taking in the dark shapes of the furniture. A musty smell hit her nostrils, like the room was clean but never properly aired. She couldn’t see anyone else, not with the curtains drawn. Where was he? Where was her father?
‘So you’re Lucy.’
The voice, deep and masculine, came from the other side of the room, near the covered window.
His accent reminded Lucy of Tramp from the animated film Lady and the Tramp, an absurd comparison that made her bite her lip so as not to let out any sound.
She squinted in the direction of the voice. There he was: a silhouette seated in a chair, facing her.
‘Come over here,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. Or maybe there is.’ He laughed, a bitter sound with no joy in it.
Lucy saw his hand rise to his face, hover there for a second, then drop. She tried to say ‘Okay’, but her voice stuck in her throat.
She took tentative steps across the room. As she came near, her father turned his head away; but it wasn’t a rejection, for at the same time he pulled forward a small, red-topped stool and patted its top for her to sit on.
Lucy perched on the edge of the stool, arranging the pleats of her skirt. She was afraid of what she might see if she looked up. But after a while, when it became clear her father wasn’t going to say anything more, she couldn’t stand it any longer and raised her head. A sound, a cross between a gasp and a squeal, left her before she could stop it. She clapped her hands to her mouth, trying to force the sound back in, but it was too late.
She’d never seen anything like his face before. Instead of nose, cheekbones and chin, his features were all blended together, his skin puckered across them. Most of his hair was missing; only a few dark strands still clung to his scalp. His mouth was just a slash in his face, and his eyes …
Lucy leaned forward a little. His eyes were shaped like her own. The skin around them was taut, but the whites were clear, and the pupil was a wide circle almost indistinguishable from the dark cocoa colour of the iris.
A thousand thoughts and feelings flickered through those eyes, and Lucy understood that Bee was right: her father wasn’t a monster. No monster could have such sad, soft eyes.
Her father was taking in Lucy’s features, just as she’d done with him. Lucy didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like to look at your father face to face, but so far, aside from the initial shock of his appearance, it felt little different to meeting Bee or Mr Walsh for the first time. It was almost disappointing really, after such a build-up.
‘Would you like a drink of water?’ he asked suddenly, turning to a side table.
He reached out for a fruit-patterned melamine jug and Lucy saw that his hands were scarred, just like his face. She could also see, as he poured water into a cup, that they were trembling.
He’s nervous. The realisation was startling.
She took the cup of water from him, careful not to touch his fingers with her own unsteady ones, for she wasn’t sure if skin like that hurt. She wasn’t thirsty but took a sip anyway. It seemed the right thing to do.
Her father didn’t say anything more.
Lucy slowly drained the water from her cup. She tapped her feet lightly on the floor in front of her. Was he waiting for her to say something? She tried to think of a question to ask him. But what did daughters ask their fathers? Ruth had never talked to Uncle Charles much. He was always the one to ask any questions, and they were few and far between. The more Lucy tried to think of what to do or say, the less any answer came to her. She tapped her feet on the floor again, following a tune that was stuck in her head. It had taken so long to get to this point, and now she was wrecking it. She needed to hurry up and say something, otherwise he would never invite her back.
Beginning to feel a little frantic, she looked around the room for inspiration. Did Bee clean it for him? Lucy had never seen anyone go in or out of the room, but she supposed they must otherwise he’d have starved to death long ago.
Most of the furnishings were the boring kind typical of an adult’s bedroom. A bed stood against one wall, a faded landscape painting hanging above it. There were a few chairs, and a desk to one side. A bookcase lined a wall, but instead of the bright, exciting covers of the pulp novels it was filled with serious-looking books with dark spines and embossed titles. The walls were grey. It was as though whoever had made the house modern and bright had forgotten this room existed. There was nothing to play with, nothing to bring joy.
Except … against the far wall, tucked into a corner and facing side-on to the door, was a brown upright piano. Lucy tilted sideways, trying to get a better view of it.
Her father, noticing, turned his head too. ‘Are you looking at my piano?’
Lucy sat back, averting her eyes again. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. It was the first word she had ever spoken to her father.
‘You can go have a closer look if you like.’
Lucy slipped off the stool, placed her cup carefully on it, then walked over to the piano. She ran her fingers up and down the black and white keys, careful not to press too hard and make a noise. She touched the sheets of music that stood in the wooden stand embedded in the piano, just above the keys; the black symbols were foreign to her but exciting. She ran the flat of her hand across the brown leather seat that waited for someone to sit on it and bring the piano to life.
‘Do you know how to play?’ her father asked. He had turned his chair so he was facing her, but didn’t come any closer.
Lucy looked again at the music sheets. Their straight lines and scattered dots seemed so far from the sounds she knew a piano could make. She shook her head.
‘You should learn.’
‘Really?’ Lucy’s voice rose in excitement. Her fingertips tingled, as if ready to make music, and she smiled.
It was hard to read his expression, but Lucy thought her father looked startled at her smile. She might even have seen the beginnings of his own smile stretching the corners of the tight mouth.
‘Will you teach me?’ she asked.
The expression disappeared. ‘No. I-I … no.’
Lucy wanted to ask who would teach her then. Perhaps Bee or Mr Walsh knew how to play? But her father was brushing a hand over his eyes, his fingers trembling again. Had she upset him? A sinking feeling came over her, and Lucy realised she’d broken her promise to herself.
She didn’t know what she’d done that had been bad, but it was obviously something, for after a minute her father said, ‘That’s enough. It’s time for you to go now.’
His voice was low. Was that disappointment Lucy detected in it?
She let herself out of the stale room, closing the door as quietly as she could behind her. As she walked down the linoleum hallway, her hands crushed the carefully ironed pleats of her skirt. All that preparation, all the sick nerves that had put both her and Bee off their breakfast, and it was over already. They’d barely spoken more than a couple of sentences to each other.
Lucy wanted to cry. Instead, she clenched her jaw, telling herself she’d never cared about having parents anyway, so what did it matter if her father seemed barely interested in her? As long as she hadn’t up
set him enough to send her away; that was all that mattered.
Heading for the comfort of the treasure room, Lucy renewed her promise to herself—and added another to it. She would find a way to learn how to play that piano. Her father might not want to teach her, but that didn’t have to be the end of it. From the things Bee and Mr Walsh had said about her mother, she hadn’t been the kind of person to give in to resistance when she set her mind to do something.
Lucy would take a leaf out of Evelyn Bell’s book and find a way to get what she wanted. Without breaking her promise.
So, that was his daughter.
Flynn had held her once, during that awful moment, but cradling a squalling infant for mere minutes was different to having a young girl in front of him, asking questions and venturing opinions. He’d been so afraid he was going to freeze—that old weakness of his. Instead he’d stiffly offered her water as though entertaining some society matron.
She was like Evie. His chest tightened so he thought a rib might crack.
The resemblance wasn’t physical. She shared his own once-thick dark hair, and had button-features that didn’t belong to anyone he knew—the aunts, perhaps, who’d apparently been unable to forgive the little girl for her mother’s supposed sins. But it was Evie’s curiosity he’d seen in Lucy’s eyes darting all over the room; Evie’s quiet restraint that kept her hands folded in her lap when she so obviously wanted to touch things.
He had never thought of Evie as restrained. Not back then. It was only with hindsight he was able to recognise it. She could have responded in so many bigger ways when she’d realised she was pregnant. Why hadn’t she?
Flynn shook his head, curling his hands into fists and pressing them to his temples. There was no getting answers to decade-old questions. There was no making things different now.
Poor Lucy. Flynn heaved out a long sigh that took in the closed-in room, his failure as a father, his dependency on others. He was sorry the little girl had a father like him. How well she would have done with one of those jolly types who were comfortable sitting a child on their knee, who had deep pockets from which sweets appeared. How strange a life he was giving her instead.
His hands fell into his lap, but he didn’t look at them. He was staring at the piano. Before she’d gone to it, Lucy had been close enough to him that he could smell the faint trace of Bee’s perfume on her, as though she’d held the girl in a long hug. He’d wondered what Lucy’s hair might smell like if he leaned over her. Would it have the same mild coal tar scent of Vosene shampoo as Evie’s had? He’d been pondering that, and said the thing about learning to play the piano without thinking. A stupid mistake.
She’d smiled, and he saw Evie’s wide curling mouth in the expression. For a second he almost smiled back; then she was asking him if he would teach her the piano, and it was all coming back and he couldn’t understand how he’d forgotten everything for even a second.
He didn’t want to teach her the piano. He was afraid that if he did, she would enjoy it, and if she enjoyed it, she would laugh. Hearing Evie’s laugh coming from her brought too many memories—memories he felt he would suffocate beneath.
He’d once desperately wanted to be the one to make Evie laugh. The first time he’d realised this he was on the Victory’s deck, leaning against the rail and smoking while Bee rehearsed the new song Humphrey had written for her. Humphrey frowned and gave her directions—they didn’t seem able to settle on something. Flynn couldn’t make out what they were saying and didn’t care. The lyrics would undoubtedly be something saucy that pushed at the boundaries, but they’d only tickle his senses briefly before their impact faded. That’s how everything was for him now.
Evie had come rushing up from below deck, her face still grey from seasickness. She was excitedly waving something in the air. He couldn’t remember what exactly—one of those Strand Electric booklets she was so enamoured with perhaps?
Flynn’s eyes had followed her, fascinated with the way she didn’t fit in the world of strict societal rules and forced post-war cheer yet didn’t let that destroy her. She simply forged a place for herself instead. It was like she was the living embodiment of the Victory.
Evie marched towards Humphrey and Bee, halting as she caught the last line of Bee’s song. Her skin flushed red, right up to her hairline.
Humphrey and Bee exchanged amused glances, but Evie wasn’t perturbed. She tilted her head to the side, the crease between her brows indicating her mind was on work matters. She grabbed Bee by the shoulders and turned her back to them all, then she moved Bee’s chin so she was looking over her shoulder. The effect was startling. Bee’s hard, sparkling gaze seemed to say, ‘I know you were watching me leave, and I caught you.’
Evie was gesturing, hands above her head, and Flynn had no doubt she was talking about the best way to illuminate this gesture.
Humphrey nodded rapidly, then gave Evie a quick hug around the shoulders. Her expression was startled but pleased, and as she laughed jealousy made Flynn’s lips press tight around the butt of his cigarette. He wasn’t jealous of Evie’s simple joy, but of Humphrey for being able to make her laugh so easily. The feeling startled him, and made him look at her more closely. Everyone called Humphrey a magician, but to Flynn it became Evie who held the real magic. Her laughter was infectious, and she had a way of looking at things and seeing how they could be made better.
Flynn only ever looked to make things bearable.
Now, moving to the leather piano seat, Flynn ran one hand over the prison-stripe keys. Had he done the right thing bringing Lucy here? Humphrey had insisted, but Flynn, usually ready to capitulate to whatever Humphrey wanted, had argued. When Bee had joined in, he couldn’t find the strength to resist both. Not when they had done so much for him, taking care of him when he’d been unable to do it for himself. Flynn knew it was guilt that had motivated Humphrey to offer up his home, which only made his burden worse. He could barely bear the weight of his own guilt, let alone someone else’s.
He closed the lid of the piano. He wouldn’t allow Lucy to become another person burdened by him. Not any more than she already was. He’d met her once and that would suffice. No doubt the child would be relieved not to be in his presence again. He only knew how to deal with the dead anyway.
He raised his left hand and, using the finger that no longer had a nail, wiped a tear from his scarred cheek. He had no idea how it had appeared there.
He needed Alvin.
Flynn didn’t like to ask his old friend to visit too often, but Alvin was the one person whose presence had never stopped feeling like a balm on his wounds. He would understand why Flynn couldn’t see his daughter again and find the words to make it alright.
It was selfish to ask him to come though. Alvin had a life of his own; a family who loved and relied on him.
After the accident, he’d been one of Flynn’s carers, living in this house for six months until Bee finally let slip that Alvin had sacrificed an opportunity for love to be there for Flynn. The girl who’d taken Alvin’s heart was a singer who’d been offered a role as a regular cast member on the BBC program The Good Old Days. It was the kind of offer a performer couldn’t refuse, but it took her to Leeds, far from Alvin’s reach on the Isle of Wight. Upon discovering that Alvin had also been presented with a contract but had turned it down to look after him, Flynn had wondered how he could have been so blind to the havoc he was wreaking on his most treasured friend’s life.
It had taken some convincing to reassure Alvin that he could manage without him. He’d pointed out that three carers was excessive, but it was still another month before Alvin left for the mainland to see what kind of life he could build for himself. Flynn was glad there was at least one person whose life he hadn’t ruined.
Over the years, whenever it seemed as though the great smothering weight that Flynn carried every second of every day might finally suffocate him, Alvin had made the trip to the island, bridging the distance between them for some much-needed fac
e-to-face time.
Flynn knew it was time to call on him again.
It was mid-afternoon the following fortnight when Flynn heard the car on the driveway. Neither Bee nor Humphrey had left the house, so the car could only belong to one person. He closed his eyes and let out a breath he felt he’d been holding in for years.
He cracked open his door, and a minute later heard Bee’s voice calling for Humphrey.
‘There’s only one person I can think of who drives a Triumph Mayflower,’ Humphrey responded. ‘Is that Alvin?’
‘Who else would trek all the way out here to see you lot?’ Alvin’s warm, deep voice said.
Flynn realised now that he should have warned Bee and Humphrey about the visit, but it didn’t really matter. Alvin was always welcome, and always knew how to put things to rights.
The voices downstairs continued, but Flynn paid no more attention. He pushed the curtains at his window more open than usual, then pulled two chairs into the rectangle of sunlight shining on the floor.
A knock on his door made it swing wide, then Alvin was there. His hair was greyer at the temples than it had been the last time they’d met, and the creases around the corners of his eyes were deeper, but otherwise he looked the same as ever.
‘Hey good-looking,’ Alvin said, grinning.
Flynn smiled back, his cheeks tight with the unfamiliarity of it.
The two men crossed the room and met in an embrace. When they parted, Flynn saw that Humphrey was standing in the doorway, watching them. Flynn didn’t turn him away, but didn’t invite him in either.
‘How is Leeds treating you?’ Humphrey asked, taking Alvin in from head to toe. ‘Still lighting things on fire at City Varieties Music Hall?’
Alvin mimed throwing a baton. ‘Trying to put off retirement as long as possible.’
‘Careful there, you don’t want to make the same mistakes I did.’
